I brought Mary Oliver.
Together we sat on the rusting step
of our old blue camper,
listening to the peewit of the Lapwings
and lazily searching the Machair
for their wispy crown feathers
and iridescent green-black backs.
It mattered not that we could not
It was enough - the knowing.
That and breathing the salty air.
Until suddenly they took flight.
Two dozen or more white rounded wings
dancing staccato notes on the wind.
The only deceit was in their ‘just being’.
And it was more than enough for Mary and I.